Barrowman’s charity buffet was a loud, raucous event: exactly what this systematically victimised community needed. The beer tent was packed, the band was on stage belting out a classic pop number, and the low buzz of voices filled the air. Then all of this was abruptly drowned out by the sound of two different types of siren, coming from several directions. Police cars and ambulances. Everyone stopped in their tracks to watch dozens of blue lights flash past.
Barrowman intuitively ran towards the church hall — the only person moving amid the stunned crowds all speculating about what on earth was going on.
Half a mile away, in one of the fields, Betina, wearing tourist clothes, a headscarf and dark glasses, made her way through the sea of cars, towards an aerial sporting a red ribbon, blowing in the breeze.
As Barrowman marched in one direction, DC Oaks was running full-pelt in the other, through the dressage arena chasing a man dressed like a tourist, but wearing very distinctive, red-soled trainers. This man, when approached by Oaks because of the trainers he was wearing, had immediately bolted.
Oaks was transfixed by the flash of red he saw with each stride. This was Adidas Man!
Barrowman saw Oaks, changed direction and made a beeline for him. The arena was covered in a thick layer of coarse sawdust, with a barrier of hay bales to catch any riders who fell. Beyond the hay bales, metal crowd-control barriers were linked together with a hook-and-eye system. Every fifth barrier was left unlinked in order to facilitate the quick response of the St John’s Ambulance if needed, and the Mayor when it came time to hand out the winners’ medals. Barrowman knew where these unlinked barriers were, as he’d made certain he was chair of the health and safety committee. He slid through one of the gaps into the arena and walked calmly around the outside of the hay bales, in an arc that would see him intercept the man Oaks was chasing. When Adidas Man leapt onto the hay bale next to Barrowman, he was so focused on clearing the metal barrier in front of him that he didn’t see Barrowman’s fist until it slammed into his jaw. The man fell backwards into the sawdust, out cold. Oaks came to a stop, resting his hands on his knees as he tried to get his breath back. ‘Is this them?’ Barrowman was furious. Oaks nodded. Barrowman had no further questions for an underling like Oaks, so continued on his path towards the church hall. Gifford was going to be the one in the firing line for keeping Barrowman in the dark!
Adidas Man started to stir and groan, and he lifted one hand towards his head. Oaks quickly slapped the cuff onto the moving hand, spun him onto his front and secured both arms behind his back.
‘What’s your name?’ Oaks said.
‘No English,’ the man replied.
‘Good,’ Oaks said. ‘I’d hate you to report me for calling you an ugly little fuck.’
Adidas Man, in a sudden fury, brought one knee up and tried to turn onto his front, but Oaks kept his weight on the man’s shoulders to hold him still. ‘You understood that,’ he grinned. Oaks then happily read him his rights, then waited for assistance to arrive, knowing he couldn’t safely move him on his own.
The church hall was sectioned off into two areas. As Barrowman strode through the front door, he was met by a scene of calm efficiency as officers dealt with lost children, and first aiders dealt with mild sunstroke and elderly people who had had minor falls. But Barrowman could also hear a buzz of chatter from a second area towards the back of the room that was curtained off from prying eyes, and that was where he headed.
Pulling back the curtain, he saw a bank of screens linked to surrounding CCTV cameras, being monitored by a team of six officers, while Gifford stood in front of several whiteboards displaying an array of information. Barrowman couldn’t make head nor tail of it all — until he spotted a map highlighting the five target properties and probable escape routes. Five properties were going to be burgled and no one had told him!
Barrowman was about to give Gifford a piece of his mind, but was stopped in his tracks by the sudden entrance of a bruised and bloody Jack. He had a blood-soaked bandage towards the back of his head, and blood on his shirt collar. ‘Did we get Betina Barro?’ he shouted. ‘Who’ve we arrested? Names! Come on! And the Adidas NMD guy, did we get him?’ He paused for a moment to get his breath while Barrowman and Gifford looked on in equal bemusement.
‘Alberto escaped from my raid. He said we didn’t get everyone... he texted...’ Jack staggered on the spot, but quickly righted himself. ‘He only cares about... he wouldn’t text anyone else. It had to have been Betina.’
Gifford picked up a chair, took Jack by the arm and sat him down next to an officer seated in front of the CCTV screens. The officer pointed out where each target house was situated, and which ones had ended in arrests. With the exception of Alberto Barro, every other gang member who had arrived at a target home had been arrested.
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Jack mumbled to himself, desperate to put the pieces together. ‘She was here. He texted her, I know he did. And she texted back. So, where was she? If not at any of the target homes, where the hell was Betina Barro?’ Then a memory found its way to the surface and a terrible idea struck him. ‘He called them “cannon fodder”.’ My God! Was it all just smoke and mirrors?’
Emil Borreson was a Swedish Bitcoin dealer who lived in a seven-bed mansion on five acres of land just outside Chipping Norton. He sat at his office desk, his fingers trembling as they hovered over the keyboard of his laptop. Stuck to the art nouveau shade of the desk lamp was a polaroid photograph of a terrified, crying woman seated on the floor of a dark room. Framed photos on the same desk suggested that this woman was Borreson’s wife, or at least his partner. Also visible in the polaroid was a pair of feet, wearing Adidas NMDs. That same man now stood by Emil’s side as together they watched the spinning circle in the middle of the laptop screen.
Betina stood a few yards away, mobile in hand, ignoring its buzzing. She had twelve voicemails from Alberto and she finally pressed play on one of them. ‘Answer my calls! I’ve got away. Have you? You said you were safe — why aren’t you answering me?’ Then another: ‘The police were waiting at every house, I just need to know that you’re safe. Why aren’t you... if this is the cops, pick up. Pick up or... I’ll kill someone. Anyone. Where’s my sister?!’ And another: ‘Betina, if you’re not with the cops, and you are safe, pick up! Or have you betrayed me, Betina? Did you know they were coming? Please don’t tell me that’s it... please! This is that bastard De Voe’s doing. And you let him! When did I become part of the fucking cannon fodder, you bitch? They have your name, Betina. They have his name, so you’re not safe at all. You’d better hope the police find you before I do, darling sister. Because, blood or not, if you’ve betrayed me, I’ll slit your fucking throat!’ Betina listened to the voicemails without any expression on her face.
Adidas Man waved Betina across to the desk. Borreson’s request to cash out his £20 million cryptocurrency account had been granted by the crypto exchange and the money was now on its way to a second bank account. Betina texted De Voe:
With you shortly.
‘Please...’ Borreson’s voice was no more than a whisper. His armpits were dark with sweat. He stared at the image of his wife’s terrified face. ‘Please. Give her back to me.’
Betina assured Borreson that his wife was alive. After they left his home, they’d return to the place she was being held and let her go. Betina moved his laptop and his mobile out of reach, and placed a small camera on the desk in front of him, pointing in his direction. ‘If you move from your desk before your wife walks through that door, I’ll kill her. If you call the police, I’ll kill her.’